Non-PRO English to Italian Medical General / Conversation / Greetings / Letters morte di un figlio

At the bedside was a wooden table
with drawers, and on
the far side of the room were
dark gray curtains framing windows
overlooking the parking lot. Hari’s mother
was smothering
his face with kisses, talking almost robotically, as her grief
erupted in ever more intense swirls. “No more, no more, my
son is gone! Oh, my father,
my loving son no more!”
A relative sitting on the flower-patterned
couch tried to
comfort her. “He suffer too much, sister,”
she said. “It’s God’s
choice. He will
come back again in a nice body.”
The father
came over and hugged me. He was wearing an
overcoat, though it was spring. “She will
cool down,” he whispered,
referring to his wife. “She seen how he suffered.”
“Oh, my son be punished and punished,” the mother
wailed.
“He said, ‘Mom, I’m dying,
I’m dying,
I can’t
breathe!’ I told
God to leave him, I would take him at 50 percent.
But He
wouldn’t
even give me that.”
There
wasn’t
much I could offer at that moment, so I said
I would come back and exited. The father
followed me out. In
the hallway, he asked me what was next.
The body would be taken to the morgue, I explained. The
funeral home would call to arrange for transportation. He
seemed calm talking about the arrangements. Then his cell
phone rang. He put in the earpiece. “Hello . . . yes, my son no
more.” And, finally, he broke down, too.